


golden hour

by matsinko



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:40:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21576973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matsinko/pseuds/matsinko
Summary: Harry, sunsets, and the small things in life.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32
Collections: Harry/Draco Owlpost 2019





	golden hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [semperfiona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperfiona/gifts).



> dear semperfiona,  
> it was an honour writing of you. 
> 
> i wrote this during a really difficult time, and i know it's tiny, but for me - it's a victory. so i'm really thankful for your lovely prompts and to the mods of this event who were so so kind to me despite everything.
> 
> <3

“There is a crack in everything, it’s how the light gets in.”

Leonard Cohen

\--

“Golden hour,” Hermione says, and Harry’s focus snaps back to the conversation.

“What?”

“It’s golden hour,” she repeats, briefly glancing up at Harry from the book she’s reading. Beside her, Ron’s sleeping, arm draped over his eyes. “I’ve always liked that time of the day when the sun is starting to set.” She sighs and looks away, towards the sky. Closing her eyes, she adds, “We can enjoy that now, Harry. We’re free to enjoy the small things.”

Harry swallows, trying to dislodge whatever’s stuck in his throat that’s preventing him from speaking. It rushes through him, and his eyes begin to sting under its weight. _Can we_ , he wants to ask but doesn’t.

_Can we_ , he thinks, and looks past Hermione, past the blanket under the tree they’re occupying, his attention falling on a pale head and long neck. The reddened light gives Draco Malfoy a crown of gold and a gleam to his cheeks; it melts into his eyes and drips off his eyelashes. He could be a saint.

He could be a saint if Harry didn’t know any better.

The sun dips below the horizon, and Harry slumps lower on his desk with the light filtering through the thick windows, warm on his skin. Professor Binns drones on but Harry hears nothing -- just a stream of words, fuzzy and distorted. 

Harry blinks, gaze sliding forward until it falls on pristine robes in black and green, on long, pale fingers and meticulous notes in neat, sharp handwriting on yellowed parchment. He doesn’t turn, but he stills -- halts his writing -- and Harry almost stops breathing, anticipating welling inside of him like a pot of dry dirt.

_Turn around_ , he thinks. 

Malfoy doesn’t. He resumes writing, the pale curve of his cheeks tinted red. 

Harry dozes off like that, under the golden light, watching Malfoy write, like the small act of something so plain, so ordinary is washing over sins of war.

“Go ahead,” Harry says, and Ron shrugs, biting into the apple he’s holding. 

“You’re gonna miss dinner, mate,” he says as fruit juice drips down his chin, words barely recognisable.

“That’s fine. Just--,” he gestures, lets the unfinished sentence hang between them for a second, then he turns around and runs back towards the pitch.

The last bit of autumn sun is filtering through the thinning clouds, and the rain slows to a drizzle; Harry’s Quidditch robes stick to him, wet and unpleasant, but he lets them, wand untouched in his back pocket.

Golden hour.

He runs into Malfoy, just as he’s making the turn that leads to the changing rooms. 

“Merlin, Potter,” Malfoy says, barely avoiding colliding into him. “Watch where you’re going.”

We can enjoy that now, Harry.

“I--,” Harry says, his quickened breathing cutting off his sentence. “Play with me tomorrow?”

Malfoy starts. 

“Have you gone mental?”

“Please.”

“If this is some kind of a joke--”

“Play a game with me. If you win, I won’t ask again.”

“Again...” Malfoy says words trailing off.

Harry can see it. Just like the filtering light and the setting sun; just like falling yellowed leaves and the rain droplets that are sliding down Malfoy’s face. He can see the challenge lightning up like small fires in his eyes. It burns and burns and burns.

We can enjoy that now, Harry.

“Fine.”

  
  



End file.
